By the time Brand returned home, it was past noon. Seri was in the garden, but he didn’t say hello to her. He raided the kitchen, dragged himself up the stairs, peeled off the medallion, and tossed himself into bed. So much work, for nothing. He fell asleep, and when he woke, it was dark again. He checked the clock. Past eight. Dinner would be over.

He thought about flopping back into bed and sleeping some more, but he was hungry again, and thirsty, too. Magic tended to work up an appetite. Brand glanced in a mirror and saw that his appearance was ghastly, his face pale and drawn, his hair sticking up. He half-heartedly tried to press it down, but he realized he didn’t care. He stomped down the steps and threw open the dining room door.

Seri sat at the table, reading.

“Good evening, Brand,” she said.

He stopped.

She was leaning into the candles, the light shining in her face. Her hair was pulled back in a beaded headdress and she was in her red velvet evening gown. Though she dressed like this every evening, there was something about how she looked tonight that made his breath stop.

“You’re very late,” she said.

“I thought you’d have left by now.”

“I brought a book.” She showed him the volume in her hand.

He stepped forward, uncertainly. He felt rumpled and under-dressed and kept nervously patting his hair back. He thought about summoning an illusion to make him look polished and dashing. But what was the point? He stepped to the head of the table and took his seat. He noticed that her plate was clean.

“You haven’t eaten?”

“Not yet.”

“You could have eaten without me.”

She said nothing.

The food was cold. Brand wanted to put on good manners and wait for the food to be reheated and make polite conversation with Seri—but he was too hungry. He heaped great portions on his plate and wolfed down the food. For a few minutes, the room was silent but for the sounds of his chewing.

“Did you learn what you’d hoped?” Seri asked.

“Yes and no,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I learned my enemy’s name. I also learned the family’s dead. The menfolk are dead,” he quickly amended.

“So you’re going to avenge yourself against the women?” Seri asked.

When she said it like that, it did sound rather pathetic. Brand wiped his mouth and reached for his wine glass.

“I will figure out my revenge, once I figure out who’s left.”

“And then what?” she asked.

He sipped his wine. “One thing at a time.”

They ate the rest of the meal in silence. Since it was already late, Brand considered allowing Seri to retire to her room. But he found he didn’t want to be alone. The castle seemed too dark, too empty, and without Seri, it would be emptier still.

“Would you care to accompany to my private room tonight?” he asked.

“If you like,” she said.

He offered his arm, but as always, she didn’t accept. And after he had lit the fireplace, and she had lit the candles, they stood together in the room, and he had no idea what to say. Even something as simple as asking her for wine or asking her to have a seat seemed to elude him. He didn’t really want to move away from her or for her to move away from him.

Brand took a step closer. Not close enough to make her flinch. But close enough that he could, if he wanted, reach out and take her hand. Her hand was placed on the mantel, near a candelabra, as if to hold it steady.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“It’s quieter without Lotte,” he said at last.

“Yes,” Seri said.

“She seemed to take to you. Like a sister. Do you have sisters at home?”

“I had a sister.”

“Had?”

Seri looked away. “She died.”

“My condolences.”

He didn’t know what else to say. He’d had no family of his own, except his mother. Visiting the vault had reminded him of his revenge, but the empty castle reminded him of what he had lost. He thought of his aunts and uncles and cousins, faces he’d seen, but never known.

“Do you miss them?” Seri asked.

“Who?” Brand asked, coming out of his daze.

“The other girls.”

“Yes, of course. That’s why I craft illusions of them.”

“Can I see?”

He peered at her. “You didn’t like my illusions last time.”

“I know. I want to look again.”

He threw out the three she would have remembered: Berta, Ida, and Lotte. They were not his best work—careless, uninspired. Still he hoped Seri might appreciate the craftsmanship. Brand studied her face. She wore a neutral expression, but she rubbed her arm, as if she had goosebumps. At last she turned away.

“You still don’t like them?” he asked.

“The likeness is good,” she said. “But I can’t help but find it… disturbing. Seeing my friends reduced to a smile and a pose.”

“They’re not meant to be substitutes,” Brand said. “No more than a portrait on the wall. People who are departed are gone. You can’t replace them. You can only remember.”

He threw out the image of his mother. She sat on a chair near the fireplace, painting. Always when she painted, she held her body very still. Yet her eyes were alive, flickering back and forth, sparked with imagination, in a world beyond what he could see.

“Who is she?” Seri asked.

“My mother.”

He glanced at her, half-expecting that same disapproving look. Instead, Seri stepped closer to the image, squinting, staring at it from different angles.

“This one’s different.”

“It doesn’t disturb you?”

“No. It’s…” Seri paused. “You loved her.”

“Of course. She was my mother.”

“No…that’s what’s different.”

She could be right. His illusions were all technically good, but none were as inspired as this one. Brand had crafted several illusions of his mother, but this was his favorite. He’d captured her before she got sick. Before the long, drawn-out illness. Before she withered away into nothing. Brand wondered, for a moment, what would have happened if she had lived, how different everything would be. How different he’d be. He sighed. He waved his hand and the illusion melted away.

Seri blinked. “How did you learn illusions?”

Brand almost told her but stopped just in time.

“Why?” he asked cautiously.

“I’m curious. There’s a lot of artistry in your work. It must have taken a good deal of time to master. But it’s more than that. They mean something to you.”

Brand stood very still. Did Seri guess? She must have guessed. He stared at her but saw no shock or disapproval, just a quizzical quirk of her lips and the wrinkle of her brow. Like she was trying to figure something out. Trying to figure him out.

“It’s a family secret,” he said, walking for the wine tumblers.

“Illusions?”

He poured himself a glass of wine.

“Something else then?” she asked.

He took a sip. “Would you like some?”

“No. Do you have any other living family?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I just wonder who you’re protecting,” she said.

He put his glass down. “You think because I won’t tell you a secret, I’m protecting someone.”

“In this case, yes.”

She looked so certain. He almost wondered if she was right.

Brand cleared his throat. “I don’t have a family now. I might… someday.”

She blinked. “You mean… children?”

“And a wife.”

“You want to restore your family line?”

“I… I wouldn’t phrase it quite like that, but….”

“Then why—?” She stopped.

“Why what?”

“Why do this?” Seri asked. “Why kidnap us? Why seek revenge? Won’t it put your legacy at risk?”

He looked away. He hadn’t thought about it.

To be honest, he hadn’t thought about having a family until right at this moment, and he hadn’t expected the idea of it to prick at him. Like he’d swallowed a needle and it was scraping at his guts. Did he actually want this? To have a house full of people who loved him?

“You know,” Seri said quietly, “if you want to have a wife and children, maybe—”

“My mother,” he blurted.

“What?”

“She’s the one who taught me illusions.”

Seri blinked. Her eyes went wide, and a hand went up to her mouth. Shock. Just what Brand had expected. There was one rule among sorcerers, never-spoken, but iron-clad and unquestioned. Never teach magic to women.

“Who taught her?” Seri whispered.

“Her mother did.”

“And your grandfather permitted it?”

“He expected it,” Brand said. “All the women in our family knew illusion. That was the only magic taught to them, the only magic allowed. Mothers and daughters acted as the family memory-keepers, recording the faces of our ancestors and their most powerful spells. We kept it a secret, not because we were ashamed or we feared what others might do, but because the secrecy gave us power. Who would suspect the most powerful family secrets were being held, not in our vaults, but in the minds of our daughters?”

“Why are you telling me this?” Seri asked.

Mostly to distract her from the real question—the one that was starting to cut too close. Brand contemplated his wineglass.

“It doesn’t matter if you know,” he said in a casual tone. “If I ever rebuild my family line, it will not be like the one my ancestors created.”

And she could interpret that statement however she liked. Probably Seri thought that if he ever had daughters, he’d raise them to be lawful and ignorant and good. But Brand had no intention of doing that. If he had daughters, he’d teach them every spell he knew, because he’d be damned if he’d ever let another man simply walk into his castle and take them—the way he had done so often before. It was not hypocritical. It was common sense. If you didn’t want your daughters to get hurt, you didn’t teach them to be helpless.

But this was all hypothetical. He didn’t have a family. And probably he never would.

“So,” Brand said to Seri, “what game would you like to play tonight?”